Monday, April 9, 2012

In conversation tonight I was relating a story to my roommate about getting in trouble for dropping the F bomb. Probably at the age of 4 or so. I realized as I was telling her this story, that this is most likely my first memory. There are a few others up for contention.

One contender, I had a dream once that I was walking down our long driveway at night. There were small signs along our walkway that said, "Witch Poker". (sidebar: people have told me repeatedly that you can't read in your dreams. BS.) The signs weren't ominous. Not that I knew anything about the VFW then, but it'd be like walking up to a VFW with bingo signs. So I went in my house, and there were witches, sitting around tables playing poker. An odd concept for a 3-5 year old.

Another potential memory, that later in life (maybe age 12?) I thought that I probably just read in a book. Which was the day my dad drove away for real. Not for real forever, he only moved just down the street; but the first day he drove away from my house after the seperation. And I watched him go up the driveway from the upstairs window. Or I didn't and a book superimposed the memory.

One time we went to a store, my mom, my stepdad, and I. Or maybe he was just the dude my mom was banging at that time. Anyway, there were these heart shaped rhinestones in a bowl at the cash register. You've seen them, you can buy them in little plastic baggies at Wal-Mart near the buttons. I put some in my pocket. When I got home, my mom found me playing with them and asked where I got them from. I think I said that my dad bought them. But she clearly recognized them from the store. She called my dad. Then she told me that I was going to jail. She said that one time she stole something and her dad told the store owner, and they locked her up in a jail cell in the back of the store over night. This all sounds a bit far fetched now, and maybe over the years it's embellished itself in my memory, but my mom is nuts, so it's plausible that she told me this.

Memories are pouring out now.

One time I took my moms round brush and tried to curl my hair with it. I thought that was how you did it. It got stuck. REALLY stuck. So I loudly threw myself on the floor and told my mom that I fell on the hair brush and that's how it got stuck.

I asked my mom one day, why I had a waterbed. I didn't want one, so why did she give me one? I didn't understand what a waterbed was. Either me or my doll, or both, had wet the bed.

My mom had a picture of herself at about age 13, dressed as a hula girl, on her desk (narcissistic?). It looked just like me. I could never figure out how my mom got a picture of me from the future.

I used to walk around with an old polaroid making "Chk Chk" sounds everywhere.

I desperately wanted to be a cowboy. Then Ms. Kitty. Then a spy.

My dad lived in a duplex near the woods. A neighbor girl older than me told me that a witch lived in the house behind my dad, and that she ate men. I don't think I ever told my dad that, but I was terrified. Also, I remember the little girls mom telling me not to chew with my mouth open. For some reason, I never did again. Or at least worked on it after that.

When I was little, I had a habit of saying "Shucks". Yes, I actually said that. I learned how to read, or sound out words anyway, fairly early. One day my dad took me fishing. There was a bridge going over the river. A concrete bridge. Someone had put some graffiti on it. Nobody needed to tell me what it said. I could read it. I don't know that I knew what it meant. But when my dad brought me home, and my mom wouldn't let me do something I wanted to do, I decided to use my new word. I mean, I think it was pretty smart of me to read and realize it rhymed with my favorite word of annoyance. But my mom didn't think her 3-5 year old daughter, loudly exclaiming, "Fucks!" was very smart at all.

About Me

Writing: I usually only write when I’m in a particular mood. I should practice writing in all mental states, but for the time being, what you’re getting is either angry cynicism or on occasion, joyful cynicism. I could write on a daily basis, but you’d get some boring crap and this is not meant to be a diary. It is meant to be a form of entertainment that feeds my ever morphing ego. Comments always welcome from any point of view.